Widow's Pique (10 page)

'By the lights of Apollo, I swear the whole of Rome still sniggers about that and the fault was entirely yours, you know that. She was your wife, you should have kept tabs on the slut, because, to put it bluntly, Marcus, women of our class oughtn't to be in the position where they're able to fraternize with tattooed types in the first place. I'm not saying it doesn't happen. Occasionally a patrician woman might slip to the point where lust triumphs over common sense, but, good grief, in those instances at least they have the decency to employ discretion. They don't
elope
with the fellow. Tch, you were young, I suppose, and the little bitch fooled us all with her sweet tongue and innocent face, so I can't really blame you for going off the rails and joining the Security Police when she left—'

'Thanks.'

'—even though the disgrace of it drove your poor papa to his tomb.'

'My father drove himself,' Marcus said evenly, 'in the fastest chariot he could find. Riding pillion, you might recollect, were an excess of rich food, far too much wine and more women than most men could cope with.'

His aunt's nose twitched, but only slightly.

'If you had a wife, you would have to settle down,' she assured him, snapping be-ringed fingers for another slave to pour two goblets of wine. 'No wife would tolerate the hours you keep, much less the company you keep them in. She'd see you settled in a more appropriate line of work.'

When Orbilio refused the glass, he wasn't sure whether it

was because it symbolized the shallow lifestyle into which he was born or whether he genuinely wasn't thirsty.

'A wife's job is to provide children, Marcus. Your last one failed to deliver the goods, but you're young, you're goodlooking, you can even be witty on occasion, and I happen to know of the perfect match.'

So that's what the lecture was in aid of.

'She's the youngest daughter of one our City Prefects, her name's Camilla and—'

And she's barely fifteen.'

'See, I knew you'd agree. Like I said, the child's perfect.'

'Child is right, Lucretia. It's obscene.'

'Nonsense! A man needs an heir and many members of your own family have taken young brides. Your second cousin, Cassius, was twice your age. Your grandfather. My grandfather, come to that, and my middle sister was just fourteen when she was contracted, and her groom was in his sixties at the time. Now, Camilla comes with a generous dowry and your uncle has already approved the City Prefect's draft contract.'

Was his aunt cold-blooded by nature, or simply blinded by the prejudice of her class? He studied her. Straight-backed and stiff-lipped, bony, unyielding, and the sad thing was that she was still two years short of fifty.

'What about Camilla?' he asked. 'Has anyone consulted her views?'

'Women are never consulted in these matters, Marcus, as you well know.'

For the first time Lucretia lifted her face to look into his eyes and her whole attitude softened.

'You really
must
stop trying to change the world, darling. Learn to accept the inevitable and you'll find life so much simpler.'

'It's precisely because nothing in life is inevitable, Lucretia, that I didn't follow my father into law.'

Emotion began to surge in his breast.

'There's no single issue, legal or moral, that cannot, or

should not, be challenged and I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not a sheep to be herded this way and that. When I marry again, indeed if I marry again, it won't be to some vapid, compliant, emotionally docile mouse, who relies on servants to bath her, to dress her, to pin on her brooches—'

'Oh, lord.' His aunt signalled for the little fan-wallah to flap harder. 'You're in love.'

'Hardly!'

Whatever had him by the balls lately, it wasn't love. Love didn't tear a man's liver to pieces and prevent him from sleeping at night. Love wasn't bewildering, terrifying, exhilarating, electrifying, it didn't rip through your gut, claw at your innards and chew your emotions to mush. No. Love was tender and sweet. It was holding hands in the moonlight, strumming tunes on the lyre, gazing deep into each other's eyes. It sure as hell wasn't serpents writhing around in your brain!

'And in any case, my marital status is irrelevant, since I have no intention of resigning from the Security Police.'

If there was one good thing to come out of this sermon, it was to reinforce his belief in his job!

His aunt changed tack.

'Your uncle has spoken to your superiors, you know. They say you have an almost perfect track record for the investigations you've undertaken on behalf of the administration, and despite what you might think, we are proud of you, your uncle and I. Indeed, the whole family is proud of the way you've handled yourself, Marcus.'

He'd like to think his father would have been proud of him, too. But in his heart he knew it wasn't true.

'By breaking with tradition you've shown spirit, and your impartiality does you credit, my boy. However, you know the old saying. Quit while you're ahead, and to have solved virtually all your cases is a commendable achievement. But it's time to rein in that pride, Marcus, and start living up to your obligations.'

'Obligations?' He spiked his hand through his hair. 'Lucretia, if you truly believe that siring sons and defending slander is

more worthwhile than quelling insurrection and keeping the Empire stable, then I pity you.'

It would take more than that to ruffle his aunt.

'I don't know what's making you so tetchy this morning, darling, but you'll feel better after a long hot soak in the bathhouse.'

She clicked her fingers and more slaves came running.

'I'll get the steam room prepared,' she said, 'and I'll send a girl in, as well.'

'I don't want a girl, thank you.'

His aunt tutted as she clip-clopped down the portico.

'Don't be so silly,' she trilled. 'I'll send Phyllis along. Your uncle's mood always improves after a session with Phyllis.'

He couldn't be hearing this right! His aunt - the same aunt who so staunchly promoted duty and obligation - arranges for slaves to have sex with her husband? Orbilio suddenly had a longing to return to the rough drinking dens and the dark bearpits outside town, where he spent so much of his time tracking down felons. In those places, at least, dishonest people were honest about who they were . . .

'Hello.' A slant-eyed Oriental girl emerged from the main body of the villa. 'Mizz Lucretia tell me you grumpy.'

'Well, I'm not,' he snarled back. 'Bugger off.'

'Mizz Lucretia say woman's touch make you feel better.'

'She wrong.'

'She not wrong. You very grouchy. Phyllis fix that for you, huh?'

A hand had covered his groin before he knew what was happening. Stroking. Fluttering. The same hand that had been over his uncle's groin, and heaven knows how many others . . .

'Look, you're a very pretty girl, Phyllis,' he said, removing the hand and patting it. 'I appreciate what you're doing, but the thing is I - I have an appointment.'

Sod his luggage. Get out of this place ASAP.

But, as he strode down the portico, the thing he hated most

about this morning's conversation with his aunt was that his aunt had been right. He did need a woman.

All night, he'd lain awake in his wide, empty bed with echoes of Horatio's girlish giggles ringing in his ears and the hollow laughter of the whorehouse's clients, so desperate to consume themselves in animal lust. As the stars moved round the sky, Orbilio had prayed to Minerva, goddess of wisdom, that she might confer oblivion on him, but with each hour that was measured by the soft trickle of the sand through the glass on the table, his body had burned for the touch of a woman. For the heat of naked flesh against his. The feel of soft hair in his hands.

God knows, he wasn't alone for lack of availability. A wealthy patrician was always a catch, a single one an added bonus, and Marcus Cornelius was not unaware of his good looks. Indeed, it was something he'd capitalized on many a time, but as he stared vacantly up at the gilded ceiling, he realized that there was only one woman he wanted. A girl with thick, dark curls that tumbled over her shoulders and were streaked with the colours of sunset. A girl whose laugh could fill a whole room yet at other times could barely be heard, and whose dark eyes blazed with passion, and whose breasts, oh dear god, whose breasts heaved like the ocean in winter . . .

In short, Orbilio longed for the only woman in the world who didn't want him.

He wondered whether she'd found out yet that the King of Histria wanted her hand in marriage, not a contract for vintage wine. Perhaps he should have told her at the Ostia Gate? But, stubborn as usual, Claudia wasn't open to listening and he'd let her find out the hard way.

His gut lurched.
What would her answer be?

She'd married Gaius Seferius for his money, she'd made no bones about that, nor that the arrangement was mutually beneficial. Gaius had wanted a young, witty and beautiful creature to parade in return and even Orbilio had had to admit they'd made a fair pact. Moreover, he was aware of Claudia's,

shall we say, indiscretions. Forgery, fraud, tax evasion, smuggling, this was just the tip of the iceberg - Croesus, there was nothing that woman wouldn't do to survive, but he couldn't protect her for ever. Sooner or later, the authorities would get to hear about her illegal exploits - in which case, penniless exile might well be the best that she'd face.

And, tough though she was, and more than capable of handling herself, there were more and more situations of late which had seen her double-crossing characters who would think nothing of slitting a young woman's throat.

Marcus had done the only thing he could think of to protect her.

When the King of Histria asked him whether he could recommend a suitable Roman bride, Orbilio put her name forward.

The King was a good man, he was fair, he was wise, and there was no doubt in Orbilio's mind that Claudia would keep her end of the bargain and give him the heirs that he needed. He ran his hands through his hair. By allying her to the King, he was giving her the life of luxury and wealth, power and influence that she so desperately craved, yet without any loss to her spirit, and she would have safety, security and shelter for the rest of her life. What woman in her right mind
wouldn't
say yes?

Leaning into the gutter, he was violently sick.

The first thing that struck Claudia about Amazonia wasn't the imbalance of women, hoeing, irrigating and manuring in tunics kilted to mid-calf - which some might say was for ease of working, others flaunting their assets, like the strumpets they were. The first thing that struck Claudia about Amazonia was the colour.

It was as though a rainbow had burst upon the land and hadn't summoned up the energy to move. Sky-blue flax beside white onion flowers, purple lavender adjacent to bright green ears of wheat. Grey geese with orange bills paddled in the margins of a pool fringed with yellow iris, white arabis and blue aubretia, while black donkeys trampled yellow buttercups beneath pale pink apple blossoms, and white goats browsed among the fields of yellow lupins grown for fodder. Every last bit of it exploding out of a bright reddish-orange soil.

The second thing to hit her was the scent. Musky ajuga mingled with spicy basil, understated rosemary competed with blowsy wallflowers, while heliotropes and pinks vied for perfumed attention.

'Welcome, my dear.'

Mazares had arranged for an armed escort to accompany Claudia across the Rovin Channel to Salome's farm, but if the Syrian girl was surprised by the visit, it didn't show as she swept her guest into the house and who knows - maybe every visitor arrived here under armed guard?

'Wild strawberry and rosehips,' she said, handing her visitor

a goblet of pale pink liquid. 'You won't find a better tonic, anywhere.'

'News travels fast.'

The drink was sweet, scented and utterly delicious.

'News?'

Salome's puzzled frown was genuine.

'That I didn't sleep a wink last night,' Claudia said quickly. 'Personally, I blame the pillows. I swear they've been stuffed with bricks and old horseshoes.'

'No wonder my geese were eyeing you so warily,' Salome retorted. 'Poor things, they feared themselves featherless. How are you finding Mazares?'

She didn't even break stride and maybe it was the sunlight, but Claudia thought she caught a mischievous twinkle in those cat-like green eyes.

'Which came first,' she asked artlessly, totally ignoring the question, 'the farmer or the healer?'

'My mother, my grandmother and her mother before that were all healers,' Salome replied, smiling. 'With each generation that passes, our skills become richer, each of us adding something from her own bank of knowledge, be it culled from Egyptian, Greek, Indian or Roman medicines.'

How about local, Claudia wondered, thinking about the King's mysterious illness. On a fast horse, Gora was a day's ride from here . . .